“My problem,” he told her, looking around for his car keys. “Just give me the address.”
She was waiting for him curbside, watched him pull on the hand brake and get out of the driver’s seat.
“How are the hands?” she asked.
“They were fine before I got behind the wheel.”
“Painkillers?”
He shook his head. “I can do without.” He was looking around at the scene. A couple of hundred yards or so up the road was the bus stop where his taxi had stopped for the Lost Boys. They started walking towards the bridge.
“He’d been stalking the place for a couple of hours,” Siobhan explained. “Two or three people reported seeing him.”
“And did we do anything about it?”
“There wasn’t a patrol car available,” she said quietly.
“If there had been, he might not be dead,” Rebus stated starkly. She nodded slowly.
“One of the neighbors heard shouts. She thinks some kids had started chasing him.”
“Did she see anyone?”
Siobhan shook her head. They were on the bridge now. The onlookers had started drifting away. The body had been wrapped in a blanket and loaded onto a stretcher, hitched to a length of rope with which to haul it up the embankment. A van from the morgue had pulled up next to the stile. Silvers was standing there, chatting to the driver and smoking a cigarette.
“We’ve checked the Callises in the phone book,” he told Rebus and Siobhan. “No sign of him.”
“Unlisted,” Rebus said. “Same as you and me, George.”
“You sure it’s the same Callis?” Silvers inquired. There was a yell from below, the driver flicking away his cigarette so he could concentrate on his end of the rope. Silvers kept on smoking, not offering a hand until the driver asked for one. Rebus kept his own hands in his pockets. They felt like they were on fire.
“Heave away!” came the call. In under a minute, the stretcher was being carried over the fence. Rebus stepped forwards, unwrapped the face. Stared at it, noting how peaceful Andy Callis looked in death.
“It’s him,” he said, standing back again so the body could be loaded into the van. Dr. Curt was at the top of the incline, having been helped by the Craigmillar detective. He was breathing hard, climbing over the stile with difficulty. When someone stepped forwards to help, he spluttered that he could manage, his speech thick with effort.
“It’s him,” Silvers was telling the new arrivals. “According to DI Rebus, that is.”
“Andy Callis?” someone asked. “Is he the guy from Firearms?”
Rebus nodded.
“Any witnesses?” the Craigmillar detective was asking.
One of the uniforms answered. “People heard voices, nobody seems to’ve seen anything.”
“Suicide?” someone else asked.
“Or he was trying to escape,” Siobhan commented, noting that Rebus wasn’t adding anything to the conversation, even though he’d known Andy Callis best. Or maybe
They watched the morgue van bump over the uneven ground on its way back to the road. Silvers asked Siobhan if she was headed back. She looked at Rebus and shook her head.
“John’ll give me a lift,” she said.
“Please yourself. Looks like Craigmillar’ll be handling it anyway.”
She nodded, waiting for Silvers to leave. Then, left alone with Rebus: “You okay?”
“I keep thinking of the patrol car that never came.”
“And?” He looked at her. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
Eventually, he nodded slowly.
“Care to share it?” she asked.
He kept on nodding. When he moved off, she followed, back over the bridge, across the grass to where the Saab was sitting. It wasn’t locked. He opened the driver’s door, thought better of it and handed her the keys. “You drive,” he said. “I don’t think I’m up to it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just cruising around. Maybe we’ll get lucky, find ourselves in Never-Never Land.”
It took her a moment to decode the reference. “The Lost Boys?” she said.
Rebus nodded, walked around the car to the passenger side.
“And while I’m driving, you’ll be telling me the story?”
“I’ll tell you the story,” he agreed.
And he did.
What it boiled down to was: Andy Callis and his partner on patrol in their car. Called to a nightclub on Market Street, just behind Waverley Station. It was a popular spot, people queuing to get in. One of them had called the police, reporting someone brandishing a handgun. Vague description. Teenager, green parka, three mates with him. Not in the queue as such, just walking past, pulling open his coat so people could see what was tucked into his waistband.
“By the time Andy got there,” Rebus said, “there was no sign of him. He’d gone heading off down towards New Street. So that’s where Andy and his partner went. They’d called it in and been authorized to unlock their guns… had them on their laps. Flak jackets on… Backup was on its way, just in case. You know where the railway passes over the bottom of New Street?”
“At Calton Road?”
Rebus nodded. “Stone railway arches. It’s pretty gloomy down there. Not much in the way of street lighting.”
Siobhan’s turn to nod: it was a desolate spot all right.
“Lots of nooks and crannies, too,” Rebus continued. “Andy’s partner thought he spotted something in the shadows. They stopped the car, got out. Saw these four guys… probably the same ones. Kept their distance, asked if they were carrying any weapons. Ordered them to place anything on the ground. The way Andy told it, it was like shadows that kept shifting…” He rested his head against the back of the seat, closed his eyes. “Wasn’t sure if what he was looking at was a shadow or flesh and blood. He was unclipping his flashlight from his belt when he thought he saw movement, a hand stretching, pointing something. He aimed his own gun, safety off…”
“What happened?”
“Something fell to the ground. It was a pistol: a replica, as it turned out. But too late…”
“He’d fired?”
Rebus nodded. “Not that he hit anyone. He was aiming at the ground. Ricochet could have gone anywhere…”
“But it didn’t.”
“No.” Rebus paused. “There had to be an inquiry: happens every time a weapon’s discharged. Partner backed him up, but Andy knew the guy was just mouthing words. He started doubting himself.”
“And the guy with the gun?”
“Four of them. None would own up to carrying it. Three were wearing parkas, and the kid from the nightclub queue wasn’t about to ID the carrier.”
“The Lost Boys?”
Rebus nodded. “That’s the neighborhood name for them. They’re the ones you ran into on Cockburn Street. The leader-his name’s Rab Fisher-he went to court for carrying the replica, but the case was booted out… waste of the lawyers’ time. And meanwhile, Andy Callis was playing it over and over again in his head, trying to sort out the shadows from the truth…”
“And this is the Lost Boys’ patch?” Siobhan asked, peering out through the windshield.
Rebus nodded. Siobhan was thoughtful, then asked: “Where did the gun come from?”
“At a guess, Peacock Johnson.”
“Is that why you wanted a word with him that day he was brought into St. Leonard’s?”
Rebus nodded again.
“And now you want a word with the Lost Boys?”
